Time On Hold, by Catherine Redfern

The years are fleet of foot, but days are heavy-booted,
Childhood, marriage, the steel works - gone in a flash.
Three sons grown and flown. Good lads: they write,
Though less since Edith died.

Mornings dawdle: radio on, porridge, tea,
And out into the garden.
Maybe transplant the sweet-pea seedlings; fingers clumsy now;
Pick early radishes and the last few snowdrops -
She did love those each spring. Use the little fish-paste jar
Hoarded down the years.

The World at One, a look atthe paper - what a world!
Who are these people? Names change so fast.
We need another Churchill at the helm.
The foot lady this afternoon; a Mrs. Dyer;
It's come to something when you need the like -
And me, the Works left wing, flying down the field!

Change socks, polish shoes, a bit of housework needed,
Cobwebs on the ceiling: she'd have hated that.
Maybe on a chair .... but .... but I'm going ....
..........   ..........   ......   ....  ..  ..

It's no good shouting when there's no-one to hear. 

Emily, by Peter Shilston

Emily sprinkled the chocolate shards on her breakfast cappuchino and wondered what picture the random blotches would conjure up in her mind today. But she had no time to waste daydreaming, so she took a quick snap of it with her mobile and then slurped it down before hurrying off to work. Later on, she could observe it at leisure, or even discuss it with her friends to see what they made of it.

Sometimes it was a fish, and once it was a rodeo rider whirling a lariat, but most often it was a dog. Emily loved dogs. Yes, this one was a dog: a short-legged, flop-eared little mutt, standing on its hind legs and looking straight at her. A dachshund or terrier of some kind; how cute!

Examining the photo again before she went to bed, Emily noticed that the dog appeared to be wearing glasses, and carried a bag or basket in its left paw. So, a cartoon dog. Perhaps the pictures she’d seen on previous days had been cartoon creatures too. Now that was an idea: stories about cartoon animals and people that came to life on a cup of cappuchino! She could become a famous children’s author! Emily was confident that she might have the ability to do this, but doubted whether she would have the time or the energy. She enjoyed her job, which was an important and responsible one, and well remunerated, but it was very exhausting, and often she felt completely drained when she came home. This was one of those evenings. As she sat slumped in her chair, she wondered what was in the dog’s bag, and the answer came into her head, “Cocaine”. Now that would make it something very different, she mused: a cartoon for adults, dark and probably violent …..

In bed, waiting to go to sleep, she wondered; Why did cocaine suddenly occur to her then? Was it something to do with that colleague at work, a senior director, no less, whom they suspected of being a user? And didn’t he once hint to her that she might like to try some? But Emily didn’t want to go there, and she had avoided the issue by pretending that she hadn’t understood the hint.

She was still picturing the little dog with the mysterious basket when she fell asleep.      

What Am I? by Michael Carding

Rotary, Probus and W.I.
Too hard for scratching, too precious to try,
My pump for a lifetime, when not drowned in passion,
I'm digging potatoes for roasting and mashing.
Four times a prime number: bad luck, some may feel.
Just one for each week of the year: that's the deal!

Answer: A pack of cards!

Water, by Annabelle Jane Palling

I did not knock at your door on a feverish night,

Parched and asking for cool, cool water or
Even just an ice cube to slide down your
Supple spine and – burning –
Refresh.

Yes, the bursting hydrangeas outside
Spoke of rich, rich soil ripe with life,
But I did not raise my hand
To knock.
I answered, though.

Anyway.
I poured, and we laughed and we drank and we
Thanked each other for soothed throats and bodies revived.
And soon we were skinny-dipping in the oceans of those tall glasses,
Splashing, sleek and alive.

Until you had drunk your fill, then
Your feet could not find the bottom, and
Your eyes lost the shoreline of your glass’s rim.
And we swam perhaps a bit too
Close.

So.
I am still holding the pitcher, and
The door is still open,
And I am unquenched
But hesitate to drink.

Hard To Get Hard, by Georgia Kelly

It's hard to get hard

as your breath catches thick

in the lining of your throat

when you're weak at the knees 

only for having fallen

for yet another pack of

brightly coloured chloresterol.

Your wife says nothing these days.

Broken promises and lies

lie deep in the blue marbled

sheet that clouds her hazelnut eyes

as she hides in her chair

hung, drawn and quartered

on some pill or other - smarties.

You visit her from time to time

but you'd rather see her through a screen.

It's hard to get hard.

as perspiration pushes out of pores

maybe she's blonde today?

you always had a thing for blondes, didn't you?

Sweat drips.

Perhaps she's got caramel skin and

a sweet, aching crush on her step-brother?

Ham-handedly, you move without care

she could be anyone.

It's hard to get hard

when you can't see your worth

over the swell of your stomach

until you catch your reflection

a moment squeezed tight

in the limp, black second of a video

it's hard to get hard.

The Robing Room, by Peter Morford

My friend Petronella’s two marriages had been conventional enough.  Number one was in the village church, 20 guests, reception in the pub.  Number two was a bit more lavish, reflecting her social promotion.  A marquee on a National Trust estate, 200 guests, honeymoon in Kenya. And now, number three, on her new man’s yacht moored in Cardiff Docks, crewed and provisioned for the long haul.

            I, as one of her special friends were to, officiate in costumes which she would provide.  She fixed the appointment with the costumiers for me.

**

            I rang the bell twice before anyone came. A tall rather imposing woman opened the door.             “Yes?”

            “I’m Martin Black, guest of Petronella Parker’s wedding.”

            “You’d better come in.  If you sit here I’ll bring you a coffee. Then you will proceed to the robing room,” she said.

            I sat down. She returned with coffee and biscuits for two, put them on the little table and sat opposite me.

            I looked her. Perhaps fifty or even sixty. Slim in her ankle-length black dress with dozens of buttons from neck to the floor.   Greying hair piled high on her head.  Long nose, thin lips. Veined hands. Wedding ring. An imperious rather impressive Victorian lady. I supposed that I would impersonate a 19^th century gentleman. She had the look of someone who didn’t want conversation so I said nothing.

            Suddenly she stood up. “I’ll fetch your costume. You may go into the robing room now.”

            I’m not sure what I expected but it certainly wasn’t what I saw.  The room was about 15ft square.  The only furniture was a pair of bentwood chairs, a hat-stand and a cheval mirror covered by a velvet cloth. 

            The walls were papered with flock and the room smelt of dust.

            She returned with a small case. “I’ll leave you to change.  Call me when you’re ready.”

I opened the case.  Inside was a striped bathing costume, a neck to knee woollen thing vintage 1920s. Feeling silly I changed and uncovered the mirror. What I saw shocked me. I looked aghast.  I’m not a vain man but this kit was ridiculous.

            I called.  She came.  Said, “Are you sure that Petronella wants me to attend her wedding in this?”

            “Those are her instructions Mr Black.”.

            “And will the other ushers be dressed the same way?”

            “I’m not at liberty to discuss the others.”

            I turned back to the mirror. It had changed.  I saw my ungainly striped figure and behind me, an automated  car assembly line.  Orange robots were assembling Range Rovers. I looked round but the wall behind me was just a wall covered in flock wallpaper.   I looked back at my reflection.  Cars were slowly progressing. Robots were delivering bonnet tops and fitting the doors.  I turned round very fast again.  Flock wallpaper.

            “How’s it done?”

            “What are you talking about Mr Black?”

            “Look at the mirror,” I said

            “I see myself.”

            “But the background looks wrong.”

            “Have you been drinking Mr Black?”

            “Only your coffee.”

            “That would account for it.  I think you’d better leave.”

            Back on the A5 I was stopped by the Police. They didn’t believe a word of it either

A Fine Romance, by Martin White

I always suspected it might end in tears. 
My friend had such high hopes: a new relationship!
   Her name is Hannah. He tells me she is American, probably from the east coast, mid-50s. She has a no-nonsense style that he finds very alluring. A bit domineering for my taste, but it takes all sorts. If she has any children I think she must be estranged from them, since her career takes her away from home for weeks on end. That, of course, is what brought them together: their love of travel.
    He'd been feeling lost for quite some time; not sure what direction to take; feeling lonely. So when he was introduced to Hannah he thought life was really going to take a turn for the better. And so it did, for a while. Lots of new places, new adventures. Everyone remarked how much happier he looked, with a new spring in his step. He was always saying, "We went there; we saw that". He was never at home. You should have seen his garden!
  Then .... it was bound to happen. He started to notice that she had quiet spells, not saying anything. He wondered if he had done something to annoy her: forgotten her birthday perhaps. He began to suspect she had moods. Then one day as they were driving around she said, "Turn right", and he found they had turned onto a dirt track, and after a mile or so of increasing anxiety on his part they entered a farmyard. Well, my friend was naturally very upset, and he stopped listening to anything she said. 
   He soon became very depressed. I wondered about suggesting he wrote to Marinella Forstrup in the "Guardian": perhaps she could give advice? But who knows where that might lead?
   So I've given him a new road atlas for his birthday. He'll be better off with that.


In the car
a new voice
she who must be obeyed